


Remember Me as a Time of Day

by lazarus_girl



Category: Faking It (TV 2014)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 23:10:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3914152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the anniversary of Amy’s brother’s death, Karma sets out to reconnect with her and repair their friendship, while struggling with some very difficult feelings of her own.</p><p>
  <i>“They say time heals, that it gets easier, but that’s not true.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember Me as a Time of Day

**Author's Note:**

> AU (ish), but follows canon up until the end of 2A. Set somewhere in the S2A – S2B timeline. Karmy centric, but contains references to Kiam. Constructed from my own headcanon regarding Amy’s dad, her family, and Karma and Amy’s friendship over the years and a lot more besides. Deals with some pretty heavy issues surrounding grief and loss, so if that’s not for you, maybe skip this one. That said, I put a lot of work into this, and I’ve tried to make it as realistic as possible, while staying true to the emotional experience of the grieving process. Title and inspiration from the Explosions in the Sky piece of the same name. 
> 
> This took a really long time to come together, had various titles and took even more forms in the months I’ve been working on it. Yes, you read that right, months, which included scrapping it, pretty much starting again, and then debating junking the whole thing. Shout out to everyone who’s seen bits and pieces of this during that time, it’d take far too long to list, everyone but you’re all fabulous, and so much a part of what this story is. An extra special mention has to go to [@spasticandviolent](http://spasticandviolent.tumblr.com) for stepping up and ultimately becoming the third musketeer of [Team Beta](http://lazarusgirl.tumblr.com/post/95992203951) (a mixed metaphor, but you get me) when real life, and pesky things like grad school got in the way. Without her help with editing, re-editing and a lot more besides, this story would’ve gone to my trash bin. Thank you so much! This is so much better for your involvement.

_“Grief is an element. It has its own cycle like the carbon cycle, the nitrogen._  
_It never diminishes not ever. It passes in and out of everything.”_  
– Peter Heller, _The Dog Stars_.

***

Most of the day is gone, and the summer is slipping away faster than you’d like. It’s a Saturday, but it’s not just any Saturday. Today is the ninth anniversary of Amy’s brother’s death. It’s the first year you haven’t woken up in the Raudenfeld – sorry, Cooper-Raudenfeld, sometimes you forget an actual wedding happened because of all that came after it – household to spend the day with her and mark it in the same way you always have.

You should’ve been with her hours ago, to get her up and ready to face the world, to share pancakes with bacon and maple syrup at your favourite diner, before finally making your way to the cemetery to visit him, holding her hand for every moment of it. Like always. It’s not like you weren’t ready, you were awake, showered and dressed as soon as the light started to stream in through your curtains. All you’ve done is watch. Watch your mom do her morning yoga routine in the yard. Watch the clock waiting for your mom to burst in with camomile tea. Watch your phone and wait for Amy to text to say it’s OK to come over.

Neither happened.

It’s been a long time since you’ve texted each other at all.

(It’s always just the same two words every year: ‘Hey you,’ but they never sound the same twice)

There’s still no text, but you’re still waiting for something to happen, something, anything, to justify the fact you've been walking around for hours, avoiding going through the cemetery gates because you have no real idea if you should be here, but there’s nothing. Things between you and Amy are _weird_ right now – not a great descriptor, but it’s the best you’ve got.

You can walk this route in your sleep, but it’s different this year. The heat is stifling, a too-hot heat that makes your dress stick to your back, so you have to reach around to fix it. There’s not even enough breeze to turn the pinwheel you’re carrying in lieu of flowers because the air is too thick and still. Worst of all, Amy isn’t by your side, watching the shadow of your joined hands on the sidewalk as you walk along in the most comfortable silence you’ve ever known. It crosses your mind that you should’ve taken up your dad’s offer to drive you here instead. You’re lowering carbon emissions and attempting to clear your head, but _God_ could you use the AC right now, and even their crappy juice truck has that. Sorry, _used_ to have that. It was impounded after the bust, adding to a growing list of things that are disappearing right from under you: food on the table, a roof over your head, a best friend.

Maybe if you stare at your phone screen long enough the answer to all your problems will magically appear. Or maybe you’ll just figure out the right thing to do for now just to get through the day. You puff out a breath, annoyed at how pathetic you’re being, and pocket the damn thing, never happier that Amy suggested you buy the dress because it looked pretty _and_ had pockets. It’s a favourite of hers. You only remember this now. After five outfit changes, you’ve still managed to fuck it up.

Sometimes, your shared history is nice and comforting, like when you’re in the middle of the cafeteria and you can say one word to Amy and it’s enough to make her laugh, and everyone else has no idea why. Secrets can be the best thing. Sometimes, shared history is painful and uncomfortable, because you know too much about each other, and all it takes is one word to make Amy burst into tears and no one else will know why. Secrets can be the worst thing in the world.

There are a lot more of them between you than there used to be.

***

You don’t like to think about the day you found out about Josh and Amy much, but it’s always harder on the anniversary. It’s when you find yourself running through ‘what ifs.’ What if you’d pestered your mom more to let Amy stay over instead of travelling to Houston to see Farrah? What if Amy had gotten her way and you’d gone with them too? What if Amy’s dad’s car had never started at all?

A lot of things about that day have faded, and the passage of time makes you remember things differently, or in the wrong order, because what you remember is mixed with what Amy and other people have said over the years, but it’s still mostly right. You thought those few hours of separation were the worst thing to ever happen to you both, but you were so very wrong. There was worse, much worse to come.

You raced downstairs hoping she’d be back, your toys forgotten, but she wasn’t there, and your mom was on the phone talking in this strange, quiet voice, pulling you closer suddenly, stroking your hair. All you picked up was ‘crash’ and ‘Amy’ and ‘Josh’ and ‘dead.’ After that, nothing really registered at all. Those first days and weeks were all a confusing blur of things you were on the cusp of fully understanding, but there are some things you remember that you wish you could forget.

Like the unholy, plaintive cry that came from your mom when the news was delivered (that sound haunts you still). Like the look on Zen’s face when he appeared on the landing, because he’d heard the noise and managed to figure out what was happening much faster than you. Like the look on your dad’s face when he came in from the yard after hearing that same noise. Like looking between your parents and knowing they were speaking and looking at you, but not really knowing what they were saying. Like how your whole body suddenly felt like jello and your dad scooped you up, cradling you in his arms like you were a baby, soothing you while he told you and Zen, in the calmest, gentlest voice, that there was an accident, that Amy was hurt and wouldn’t be home for a long time, and Josh wouldn’t be coming home at all. Then, you started to cry. Feeling Zen’s hand on your shoulder, you saw tears in his eyes too, and that made things worse. Zen never cries at anything. Finally, you understood.

The clearest memory of all? The telephone left hanging, swinging back and forth, where it dropped from your mom’s hand in shock before she rushed to you, the four of you all huddled on the stairs. You cried like that for hours. You cried yourself to sleep every night for weeks until Amy came home again.

The times you went to Houston with your dad to visit her in hospital somehow made things worse; however long you stayed it wasn’t long enough. You talked to her and read her favourite stories while you waited for her to wake up from what your dad called ‘special sleep’ to make her feel better. You know now, of course, that it was a coma, one that she almost never woke up from, but it feels better to think of it in that softer way, because so much of that time for Amy was ugly and painful. After she woke up you’d still talk, still read, play snap and go fish, because she couldn’t move around for a long time. You’d draw things on her cast to make it look pretty.

You wanted to stay, curl up in that bed with her and never leave her again, but your parents wouldn’t let you, and it got harder and harder to leave her behind. In the end, the only way you got through was to buy her a teddy from the hospital gift shop to keep her company. Your dad suggested it after watching too many tearful, drawn-out goodbyes. You spent all the pocket money you had on it. Mr. Snuggles, as he became known, made Amy smile, and stayed with her when you couldn’t. You told her to hug him every time she got scared or upset. She still has him now. Something tells you that he’s gotten a lot of hugs over the years.

Sometimes, when you look at Amy, you still see that small, pale girl in the hospital bed, surrounded by tubes and wires and beeping machines. _Sleeping Beauty_ didn’t seem so pretty and magical after that. Lots of things didn’t. You shake your head, pushing it all away because it’s just too much -its dredging up things you’ve tried to deal with and neatly box away – swatting at the tears that have unexpectedly fallen.

***

Everything looks right. It’s pretty out; the sky is bright, clear, and uncommonly blue, but it just feels wrong. You’ll never get used to the fact that Josh – Joshie, JJ, _rarely_ Joshua James unless he’d done something wrong – isn’t here anymore, and Amy has never really been the same since he died. You wonder if it’d be easier if he’d been older; if he was in college or travelling, like Zen, to somewhere you’ve only seen pointed out on a map. If he wasn’t still so little, and the whole thing wasn’t splashed across the local news, because even then, Farrah’s name meant something. She was already Austin’s favourite weathergirl. People were curious, insatiably curious, about the tragedy of the hometown sweetheart done good. People like pretty pictures and sweet-faced children. People like the macabre. You couldn’t fully grasp the reporters and the cameras camping on the front lawn for weeks, not really. Amy was just Amy. The Raudenfelds were just a family. Until they weren’t a family anymore.

Your best friend became a headline, her smiling face beaming at you across the breakfast table. Familiar and foreign all at once. She was the miracle girl. The girl who barely survived the ‘horror Houston crash’ that killed Josh, and cost their parents everything. Amy’s dad became someone she was meant to visit every other weekend, a voice on the end of a phone line, words in an email, money in a birthday card, and Farrah had to cope alone because he couldn’t. He couldn’t even visit them.

(Zen used to read you the news articles in his best clear voice that he read in class with until your dad took them all away and made him stop.)

They say time heals, that it gets easier, but that’s not true. There’s a before and an after, and a scar that tries to mend the rift between the two; sometimes neat, sometimes not. Amy’s scar isn’t neat. You’ve seen the proof. You’ve lived right beside it. You knew Amy before it happened, when her family moved a few streets over from yours in Austin. She was different then; you can’t place how, exactly, because that version of her is beginning to fade, replaced with the Amy that came after. Back then, Amy was a little shy and quiet, and you weren’t, so it didn’t take much encouragement from your mom to go over with Zen and make friends. Amy was exciting, and new, and special because she was the first friend you made who wasn’t in Miss Grover’s class at school, but you had no idea how important Amy would be, or how intertwined your lives would become.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

***

Getting through these hours at seventeen is much harder than it was at eight. You find yourself thinking a lot about Josh these days and what he might be like: whether he’d drive you all insane, like you do to Zen; whether he’d be a spoiled brat because he’s the baby, or how protective Amy would be of him, especially because he’d be starting at Hester this year if he was still alive - which you can’t _quite_ get your brain around, because it doesn’t match with the image of him you have stuck in your head. Forever five. All you ever get to do now is imagine, and watch the memorial tree in Amy’s yard grow and blossom instead of him.

It was bad enough when your gam-gam died last year, but you don’t know how you’d cope with losing Zen. He drives you nuts, and you know you do the same. Before he left for Amherst, he’d take you and Amy everywhere, sneaking you both into movies, concerts, and open mics in Dallas you weren’t old enough to get into. It’s hard now that he’s away and you’re missing him more than you ever expected now that he’s not in the room across the hall. He’s your protector, your champion, and your confidante. After Amy, he’s your best friend, as well as your brother. He’s the coolest, smartest guy you know, so you can’t hate him when he shows off (which is a lot). He’s the only reason, aside from Amy, that you keep going with your music, because he’s always encouraging. He’s also the only person, apart from her, that you can call at three in the morning and not get bitched at. His late night chats always fix everything; he always seems to know what’s going on and what to say to make you feel OK again.

You haven’t had a lot of those chats lately. It shows.

Today of all days, you remember how lucky you are to have him. Luckier still that the most difficult thing you’ve faced as his little sister is drawing whatever you wanted on the millions of casts he’s gotten from skateboarding injuries. Amy doesn’t have anyone like Zen to lean on - you do your best, but you know it’s not the same. Not even the moments when Zen has stepped in and looked out for her can make up for it. She’s had to do without any comfort like that for most of her life, and although she doesn’t show it a lot of the time, you can see the toll it’s taken on her. You’re glad that she and Lauren are trying to be real sisters to each other now. Not that you’d ever admit this out loud, but she’s exactly the kind of person Amy needs in her life. Beyond you and Lauren, people at school don’t even know what happened, because she doesn’t like to talk about it or even wear his death like a badge of honour, but sometimes you wish she were a little more open. She needs to let more people in.

As much as you’d like to, you can’t be everything for Amy. You’re only one person. What kind of person you are to her is more complicated than it used to be. What kind of person you want to be is even more complicated.

***

A lot of things have changed since the eighth anniversary – more than you ever thought possible. There’s always been an unwritten rule that you’re welcome at her house whenever, no matter what’s going on between you, but it’s different now. Looking back, you can kind of see how it happened, even if you’ve both fought so hard to prevent it. Ever since you stopped faking it – though now it’s clear that Amy never really was and you haven’t really processed that at all – everything’s snowballed into this complete _mess_ that you can’t see your way out of. You can’t trust Liam, he’s made that clear, you want to trust Amy and sometimes it feels like you can. Worst of all, you don’t trust yourself. It still hurts to think of what they did to you. It hurts to think of what you drove them to.

You thought space would be a good thing. It would give you both time to get your head around things to try and salvage what little was left of your friendship. Except all it gave you was time to pick things apart. Time to get used to Amy not being around because she has Reagan now, and Reagan can drive her places and take her to college parties. She doesn't need you like she used to. You’re jealous; horrendously, outrageously jealous because Reagan’s everything you’re not. Reagan’s _cool_ and you’ve never been that. You’re glad that Amy can be happy; you really are because you broke her heart, you stomped on it, and expected her to carry on like nothing happened. But you never expected that someone else would take your place in her life so quickly, or that she wouldn’t need you to put all those pieces of her heart back together again.

***

There’s distance between you now. A wall. Unseen and unspoken, but it’s there. Sometimes, you expect a knock at the door and a tearful reunion. Talking it out would be inevitable, because your fights never last. Except, this time, there’s been no reunion, tearful or otherwise. Whenever you’ve found yourself outside of Amy’s house you were never brave enough to knock on the door. Days without her have become weeks and months without her. It’s not long until school starts back up.

The separation is starting to feel permanent.

In her absence you’ve been clinging to Liam to fill the void - you’ve entered this … _thing_ with him now. A thing that’s little more than text and sex (sometimes sexts). He’s working at Skwerkel for his father over the summer, strong-armed into it because his father didn’t want him ‘wasting’ his time. He wastes a lot of time with you. In the back of his car. In the frosted glass elevator in the plush Skwerkel offices. In the supply closet, not caring who can hear you, batting away Liam’s hand when he tries to shush you. However, you’ve drawn the line at his father’s desk. Not even after sneaking most of the contents of the mini-bar in the corner. It’s a standard, and a vague one, but you’re sticking to it. You’re kind of disgusted with yourself for entertaining it at all, but he’s a good distraction. Not quite good enough though, which is why you go back time after time. It was the suit at first, all very Christian Grey, but now it’s just habit. It’s loneliness, boredom, and sometimes, when everything is your call, a surprising amount of spite.

The more he’s started to care about you, the less you care about him. Maybe your parents weren’t wrong to name you ‘Karma’ after all.

You think about Amy, even when you’re supposed to be focussed on him. Fleetingly, you dredge back up the nicer parts of the frequent dreams you’re having and let yourself imagine it was her kissing you and touching you, because no one kisses quite like her. It’s gotten you there – embarrassingly fast – more times than you can count. Another dirty little secret. They’re piling up. If you and Amy were in the right place you might attempt to talk about this with her, if she could stand it – it’s asking a lot – because you’re very aware it needs to stop. She’s the voice of reason, your moral compass. The one that saves you from yourself.

Without her, you’re adrift. You’re drowning.

Not talking to her isn’t the hard thing anymore; doing any kind of talking is. With terrifying ease, you’ve turned your backs on each other. You’ve effectively turned your backs on over a decade of friendship. Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe you just sped up the process, or maybe you didn’t try hard enough to mend the cracks when they started appearing. It’s your fault they’re there in the first place.

As horrible as it is to say, you wish the pain that she carries from the accident was as simple to fix as a broken heart, so you could cheer her up with ice cream and Netflix binges of the stupidest shit in the world, offering tissues when she needed them, but you can’t. People say they have a broken heart a lot and don’t mean it, but you know that’s how Amy felt that day. The pain of it was written all over her face. A pain that wouldn’t be mended with candy, or Band-Aids, or diner trips for her favourite meal. It’s the kind of pain that stays, stubbornly refusing to leave and bubbles up to the surface when it’s least expected. A pain that can hide itself discreetly for a long time and then, without warning, surge, consuming you like a wave. She’s in that squall today. You can sense it. You have to pull her out to safety. You’re the only one that can.

It’s not as simple as a broken heart, and all you can do is help Amy endure it. There’s no take backs, no magical spell. There’s no coming back from dying.

In all this mess, you’ve lost that perspective - you’ve lost perspective on a lot of things because you’re so much in your own head. It doesn’t matter that you and Amy aren’t talking and things are weird. It doesn’t matter that you’re insanely jealous of Shane because he’s replaced you as Amy’s go-to person, and he knows things that she never felt brave enough to share with you. It doesn’t even matter that you’re just as jealous of Reagan, and all the girls who look in Amy’s direction, and you’re having all these fucking _insanely_ hot sex dreams and you don’t even know _why_. It doesn't even matter you’re hooking up with Liam and Amy will be rightly disgusted with you. None of it matters at all.

Over a decade ago, before high school, boys, Liam Booker, and fake lesbians, you and Amy were friends, best friends. Amy was the centre of your world once. When did that change? How did it change? Why? You know why. You had to grow up, and things like friendship bracelets, jump rope, and playing hide-and-go-seek with Zen had to be left behind. You’d turn the clock back if you could, in a heartbeat. You’d turn the clock back so Amy could have Josh back, but you’d turn it back so your Amy would come back too. Clocks can’t turn back, but you can move things forward between you again. You’ve wasted enough time worrying about what you should and shouldn’t be doing and it’s time to just do it. You have to go through the gates you’ve been hovering in front of for half an hour, before you lose your nerve again and bail. Anyway, you’re starting to look weird.

(The fact you prefer flight over fight is becoming something of a disturbing pattern)

Finally, you slip through the gap in the cemetery gate, wanting to avoid the horrendous creaking that usually happens. Everything sounds louder here. It feels like you’re trespassing even though you’re not, you have every right to be here. Today, you just have to let everything go and be there for Amy too, whether she wants you to be or not.

Your gam-gam told you never to let the sun go down on argument. Too many sunsets have been and gone.

***

You find Amy easily, picking out a flash of blonde hair between one row of headstones and the next, sitting cross-legged in front of Josh’s grave in her favourite shirt and jean shorts. You approach slowly, careful not to startle her or interrupt the contemplation of anyone else. There are a few other people here, and though their faces are unfamiliar, their pain isn’t. You give a nod when a woman looks up from tending another grave, and the woman gives this soft – but still somehow sad – smile in return. It’s dropped a few degrees now, and you’re thankful for one small

It’s only when you move closer that you realise she’s talking to Josh. You swallow hard, feeling a flicker of pain in your chest, because it’s not the animated, bright way of talking she usually has; it’s soft, solemn and careful, like when she’s talking about something difficult or important. Her voice is small, and it sounds exactly like when you were little girls, as if she’s trying to turn back the clock, just for him.

Grudgingly, you read the headstone. You know every word by heart, but it never seems to settle in your head. There’s a disconnect. To you and to Amy, he’s still very much alive. You still remember all the games of tag and hide and go seek; burgers and too much ice cream at Six Flags and Houston Zoo when both your families would do things altogether. Watching cartoons with him on the huge couch in Amy’s living room in your pyjamas eating Cap’n Crunch on the weekends, Josh sitting between you. Movie nights sitting in the same spot, letting him choose whatever he wanted. Whenever you see kids in light up sneakers or wearing Spider-Man shirts, you think of him. For a long time, every blonde little boy did that.

 

_In Loving Memory of_

_JOSHUA JAMES RAUDENFELD_  
_OCT 5 2001 - AUG 2 2007_

_Cherished son, brother, and grandson_

_This is not goodbye, just time to rest your head_  
_The moon will be your pillow, the stars above your bed_  
_Sweet dreams our little angel, until we hold you once again_

There it is. The truth of it. Indelible and unavoidable, right in front of you.

Too quickly, you’re right behind her, but somehow, she hasn’t noticed, even though you cast a shadow over the headstone. When the breeze picks up, the pinwheel starts to turn like crazy making far too much noise, giving you away. When Amy whips around, startled, you cover your hand over it the pinwheel to still it. Her eyes are puffy and red from crying.

“You remembered,” she croaks out, looking up at you, on the verge of fresh tears. She looks so incredibly broken. That’s all you can think, and it’s all your fault.

“Of course I did, Aims,” you reply, keeping your voice low, kneeling next to her.

“I just,” she pauses, raking a hand through her hair, “I just didn’t think you’d come.”

You look down at the pinwheel in your hands, feeling so incredibly guilty. Though the distance between you is small, it feels much bigger.

“God, things aren’t that bad between us are they?” you ask, shocked but not surprised by what she’s said.

Yes, you’ve given her space, but you also stopped trying to close that space too. When she doesn’t say anything at all in reply, it’s answer enough.

Puffing out a breath, you stand up quickly, placing the pinwheel carefully in its usual spot, between Farrah’s typically ostentatious arrangement of flowers, and the toy car Amy always brings. Briefly, you place your hand on the headstone touching his picture plaque as a hello, a goodbye, and an apology all at once. Usually, you’d talk to him just like Amy does, but today isn’t the day for it.

“I should just go,” you say, quietly. “This is just ... ” you trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence.

Awkward? Horrible? The most stupid idea you’ve ever had in the history of ideas? All of the above.

“This was a mistake,” you say finally, mostly to yourself, but loud enough for Amy to hear.

The understatement of the century.

You don’t want to argue, much less in a cemetery. You hate her, and love her, and want to keep kissing her until you can’t breathe anymore, because that’s the only thing that seems right when every word that comes out your mouth is just _wrong_.

“Karma, wait!” she calls out, sniffing back tears. “I’m sorry. Please don’t leave. Not today.”

You stop dead in your tracks.

There’s a horrendous, desperate edge to Amy’s voice you’ve only heard once before, at the wedding reception. The night that started this whole mess: the great unravelling. All for three little (big) words.

_I love you._

How can you turn your back now? You’ll never forgive yourself.

You sigh, long and heavy, shoulders slumping as you turn to face her once more.

“I think it’s pretty much impossible for me to do that, Raudenfeld,” you say, softly. “You’re my Amy, remember?”

That’s what you always say whenever she’s done something stupid, ridiculous, or impulsive. It happens a lot.

You’ll forgive her anything, absolutely anything, and sometimes it seems like Amy doesn’t even know it. She lets out a whimper; her bottom lip wobbles, signalling she’s on the edge of crying. You move back, sinking to your knees. Your natural instinct is to throw your arms around her, just to absorb some of the pain that’s etched on her face, but you’re afraid to and you don’t know why. Amy mirrors you, sitting opposite. You both look at each other in an awkward kind of standoff for long seconds before either one of you is brave enough to say anything.

You’re not sure when talking became something that was hard. It used to be as easy as breathing.

“Oh God, come here,” you exclaim, pulling Amy into a hug. “I’m here,” you soothe, stroking her hair gently. “It’s OK.”

At that, she breaks. You’ve heard her cry like this before, but only a handful of times, less since you hit double digits. One of those times you know you won’t ever forget, because you were crying too, holding Amy’s hand tightly in too big a church in front of too small a coffin. She didn’t talk much that day, she didn’t talk that much for a long time. She didn’t cry for a long time after that day either. It’s as if she used every tear she had, so there was nothing else for her to cry with. She now prefers to keep everything locked up inside of herself instead, and hold and hold and hold until she can’t carry the weight of her feelings anymore because the burden is too heavy.

(You know that feeling too well. It’s getting ever more familiar)

She clings to you tightly as she sobs, grabbing at the back of your dress, grasping for purchase. You close your eyes, letting out a shuddering breath. As you breathe her in, you’re struck by this huge sense of relief. God, you’ve missed her. Ever since the police station and your attempts to save what little remains of your friendship – and _God_ have you both tried – your whole world has been off-kilter, running tilted, and slightly slow. The second your bodies made contact, it righted itself. Suddenly, you’re crying too, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. Everything feels better. Less painful and brighter and _hopeful_ ; like you could really fix this. You let out a wounded little noise at the thought, and Amy squeezes you even more.

You don’t really know what you want right now (or who), but you do know that you can’t live your life without Amy in it. It’s just not possible. You’ll fight her on it if you have to.

It feels like a long time until Amy’s sobs trail off into nothingness, and you’re taking quick breaths to steady yourself and stave off more of your own. It’s hard to be strong for her, much harder than it used to be, your emotions are far too near the surface, barely contained under your skin. Reluctantly, you let go of her, and you both smile shyly at each other.

Amy lets out a long breath before she turns to face the headstone again, as if not doing so meant he hadn’t seen any of what just happened. She’s ready now.

“Karma’s here, JJ,” she announces, with a more familiar lightness.

“Hey Joshie,” you reply automatically, scooting closer to her, “It’s been a while, huh, squirt? Hope Amy’s filled you in on everything.”

(You don’t like to think of what ‘everything’ might be)

It’s never felt weird to talk to him like this, or anyone else for that matter. You’ve grown up in a spiritual household. Your mom always says the line between here and the spirit world is thin, but you want it to be smaller still. You want it to be close enough for Amy to touch and break through, just for a second. It’s the only thing you desperately want to give her, and can’t, no matter how hard you try. Your trip to see a carnival psychic when you were eleven was a total disaster. It’s not quite near the top of your regret list, but it’s pretty close.

You glance over at her, seeing the faint trace of a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. Part of you thinks you’d do just about anything to see that smile.

(It gets louder every day)

“Let’s clean this up a little for you, huh?” she begins, crawling forward a little and starting to tend to the grave. “Gotta keep it looking nice.”

She’s’s trying desperately to keep it light, but the twinge of sadness you feel at her words is anything _but_ light.

“Need me to help?” you ask, desperate to fill the silence and feel useful.

“Sure,” she replies. “I’m glad you’re here,” she adds, quietly, after a moment.

It sounds a lot like ‘sorry’ instead.

“The pinwheel’s beautiful, Karm,” she comments after a moment, delicately touching it so it spins. “He’d love it.”

“You’re welcome,” you reply, softly, reaching to brush at the headstone. Neither of you have the right things to clean it, not like Farrah.

It feels important, pulling at the overgrown bits of grass foliage, tossing them to the side while Amy rubs at the picture plaque with her shirtsleeve.

“I just wanted to. Tradition, you know …” you trail off, feeling awkward, because it’s so much more than that.

“How is it at home?” you venture when you recover enough, looking back at Farrah’s arrangement. There’s a card attached.

You always wonder what it says. If it reveals something of the woman you remember her being. Farrah was different before too. She and Amy were closer, more affectionate. She clung to her so much afterward that it was suffocating, and in trying to keep hold of her and keep her safe, all she did was push her further away. You know she envies your closeness; that Amy shares so much of herself with you that she has no idea about.

For all that closeness, there are times when you even you don’t know what to say, but that closeness means you also know when it’s fine not to say anything at all. Like right now.

“Weird,” Amy answers, quickly. “Lauren never knows what to do. Bruce never knows. I don’t even know.”

You sigh heavily, glancing at the stone again. How do you compete with a ghost? It’s difficult. It’s always been difficult. It’ll always be difficult.

Josh’s pictures are dotted around almost every room of Amy’s house. His toys are boxed up and stored in a corner of the basement. You and Amy haven’t gone down there for a long time. The lack of him isn’t about nothingness, even though he’s become an empty chair at the dinner table, and an empty space in newer family pictures. He’s still so present, so _here_ in a way that’s hard to ignore. Even now, years later, you half imagine that he’s in another room, or out in the yard, and he’ll come right back in a second or two. That second or two never comes.

(You know Amy imagines it too)

“I just feel like I don’t belong anywhere at all anymore, Karm.”

“Amy,” you say, softly, reaching for her hand. “Don’t say things like that.”

You resist the urge to say ‘you’re meant to be here,’ because it’s wasted. You both know how lucky she is to have survived the crash at all, much less all the surgeries for her broken leg and the physical therapy that followed it. She had to learn to walk all over again, and some days you know you’re the only reason she even tried to get out of bed, much less walk on those crutches she hated so much. She was homeschooled for almost a year, and you hated being without her. That separation was worse than Houston you think. It hurt to see Amy hurt like that, to watch her struggle and not know how to help her. So you did the only thing you knew how to do: you were her friend. You stayed by her side and held her hand for all of it. Even when she’d scream, and yell, and push everyone, including you, away. You stayed when she wasn’t your friend anymore, when she didn’t feel like Amy anymore, because your mom said that’s when she needed you the most. You’re not about to leave her now.

You also know that sometimes she doesn’t feel lucky at all, especially on the nights she wakes up in the dark, screaming, still in the grip of a nine-year-old nightmare she can never truly shake. It was bad enough seeing the pictures of the car in the newspaper, and later, online. The image of that car flipped on its roof, windshield smashed, and the twisted guardrail haunt you, but it’s nothing compared to what little Amy told you: the horrendous noise of the crash itself, then the cutting gear of the emergency crew, the lingering smell of burnt tyres. She couldn’t stand loud noises and small spaces for a long time. It took her a whole year to travel in another car, and even now she gets anxious about seatbelts and door locks. She’s still terrified of the dark.

All of those memories and everything you’ve been through are there between you now, and you just look at each other, nodding in silent acknowledgement. What is there to say? Josh has always been a part of you. He’s in your fabric, but for Lauren and Bruce it must be so weird, because there are huge sections of everyone’s history they know nothing about, and can never truly understand.

“So you were going to come do this alone?” you ask, trying to steer the conversation toward something slightly less painful.

“I guess so?” she laughs, but it’s empty. “Failed pretty spectacularly didn’t I? Took me four hours to get out of bed.”

“Aims, you could’ve called me. I’m sad that you didn’t,” you try not to sound annoyed, but some of it still seeps through.

“It didn’t feel right,” she says, quietly. “After all that’s happened.”

A lot of things have happened. you’re starting to lose track of it all.

The way she says it makes you feel terrible, like those words are being dragged up against her will. Her “I love you,” sounded like that too. As if this beautiful, natural thing she wanted to express should be something to be suppressed or stamped out; squashed like a bug. You want to tell her everything you’ve had bottled up since that night. You want to tell her that you’ll love her no matter what because she’s Amy Leigh Raudenfeld, your best friend in the whole world, and nothing, nothing whatsoever, will change that.

“Whatever happens between us, never think that you can’t call me, OK?” you say, hoping to reassure her, watching as she swats angrily at the remnants of tears that streak her face. “Never think that you have to face this alone,” you continue, putting your arm around Amy’s shoulders and pulling her close. For a few seconds Amy seems surprised, stiffening at the contact, but then she relaxes and it feels like progress.

You wish you’d brought tissues. You wish you’d brought something other than yourself and that little pinwheel. Maybe flowers, or a picnic, like you did last year, instead of turning up almost empty handed. That’s how it always feels now with Amy; that Amy gives and gives and gives, and you just show up empty-handed with nothing to offer in return.

Like you knew she would, she reaches into the pocket of her shirt, pulling out a picture of him, unfolding it carefully. Suddenly, there he is, that sweet, smart, mischievous, sometimes annoying, little boy – too little – staring back at you. He smiles out at you both, sitting between your younger selves, in the green manicured lawn of Amy’s nana’s condo, against a cloudless sky. The picture is starting to fade, curling a little at the edges where the folds have worn the paper further. Amy carries it with her everywhere.

That summer was perfect. That summer was the last time you can remember Amy being truly happy. It feels like forever ago and five minutes ago all at once.

You can see the similarities more obviously now than you had when they were younger. They have a lot of similar features. His eyes are the same shade of green, and they shine the same when he smiles, and that’s what you can’t help but focus on now, ignoring the sweet little version of yourself who looks like she knows the answers to everything. All you can see is that smile. It lights up their faces in exactly the same way. It’s the kind of smile people can fall in love with. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen it.

“We were pretty cute. God knows what happened,” you joke, like always, and it makes Amy smile, just a little.

“I thought it would be easier by now, Karm,” she says with a sigh, gently touching the picture before pocketing it again. “I thought I’d miss him less. That it would hurt less, not more.”

“I don’t think you stop loving people because they aren’t here anymore. They’re still with us in our thoughts and our lives,” you pause, trying to collect yourself, feeling tears starting to well and sting at the back of your eyes. “They’re in everything. Everywhere. That love connected you, Aims. You can’t help it. None of us can.”

Amy nods, and you hug her tighter. You feel the same about your gam-gam too. She’s here, still such a part of who you are. She’s there when you play guitar, remembering how she taught you, or when you curl your hair or put on her lipstick, copying her look from an old photograph. She’s there when you have to make tough choices; you haven’t been doing so well at making the right ones lately. You wonder what she’d think of who you’ve become and how you and Amy have been treating each other. You wonder about Josh too. You wonder a lot.

“What would he think of me?” she asks, after a moment, shifting around to face you fully.

There’s such fear in her voice that it makes your stomach roil.

You turn too, looking at Amy for a long time, considering your words carefully, because you want to be honest.

“I mean, I made it. I’m here and he’s not,” she gulps in air, struggling to talk. “I’ve done some stupid shit, Karm. Really stupid. I’ve wasted so much time.”

This isn’t just about whether Amy makes the right choices or moves through the world as a good person; this is about whether Josh could love her _because_ of who she’s becoming too. What he would’ve felt like if he were here to witness you faking it, and the not-so-fake result of Amy being in love with you. It’s hard, because you can only go on what you remember and draw from what other people have said. You think about Amy’s dad, her uncle Drew and all of Farrah’s stories about when they were young. You think about Zen and how he reacted and try to figure out where Josh might fit in all of that.

She’s relying on you now. You’ve let her down so often recently, you don’t want to add to the list.

“Yeah, you _are_ here and I’m glad,” you can’t help, but glance down to look at thin, fading scars on her left knee, remembering the plates and the pins that hold it together. The ones that keep her walking, even when the doctors said she might not do it ever again.

She notices, and then you're both looking at them for a moment. Without realising, you reach forward, tracing over them with a fingertip. It’s meant to sooth her, to sooth you both, but it just feels strange; it’s different to every other time you’ve done it. Once you do realise what’s happening you’re embarrassed enough for the both of you.

“You know what I think,” you pause, taking both of her hands in your own, desperate to shift her attention. “I think that he would be _so_ proud. You’re brave, Amy. So brave. You’re an amazing person, and you’ve been through so much, but you haven’t let it break you. You’re smart and you’re passionate and even though you don’t want to, you care about people. Maybe too much.” At that, Amy lets out a little laugh, flushing with embarrassment, and you realise how much you’ve been babbling on, letting it out in one huge breath.

The pause in your words is enough to make you backtrack, because you’re so very close to admitting something else altogether.

Something neither of you are ready for. Something that isn’t easy to take back.

“He couldn’t not love you Amy. You’re his big sister, his protector.” you smile, but you know Amy can sense something is off. “Whatever happens, you’ll always be that. Nothing else matters. He adored you, just like I do.”

“I’m sorry for just checking out and not really dealing with stuff after the bust,” she blurts out, letting go of your hands. “I practically ditched you for Reagan, to throw myself into our relationship and make it work like I imagined it would.”

You flinch. That cuts a little too close to how you used to be about Liam. You never thought she’d say that about Reagan. That’s bold, you know, since she and Reagan aren’t officially broken up yet, but the honeymoon is over, if Amy’s behaviour today is anything to go by. Months ago, that would’ve made you happy, because you’re selfish, you’re greedy, and you’re territorial when it comes to Amy, but now? It just makes you sad. You won’t have to share her anymore, but Amy will hurt to make it happen. You’re always causing her pain somehow.

“We’ve been over this,” you shrug, deflecting, choosing to ignore most of what she just said. “We both screwed up.”

“No, _I_ did. I messed everything up. I haven’t been there for you. I never wanted to lose you as a friend but that’s what’s happened isn’t it, Karm? I just wish that we could go back, to before. Before everything. The wedding. Liam. All of it,” she swallows hard, looking down at her lap, talking softer and softer. “I just want you back. I everything to be OK again. I want my best friend back.”

At that, she looks across at you, expectant. “I know we’re not gonna be able to get back there right away,” Amy continues, struggling a little to explain herself. “But I don’t want us stop trying.”

“Me either,” you reply. “I want us back too. Love doesn’t have conditions you know. I tried, I really tried to hate you, but I can’t,” you pause, making sure to keep eye contact with her, ignoring the way your heart is jackhammering in your chest. “I just can’t.”

There’s a long, long silence before she dares to speak.

“You can’t?” she asks, brows furrowing in confusion, looking for reassurance. She doesn't trust what you’re saying. “You don’t?”

Terrified of not loving her would be more accurate, but you can’t tell her things like that today. You can’t tell her about the feelings, and the dreams, and ridiculous amount of time you spend thinking about her when you shouldn’t be, or don’t have reason to.

So, you do what comes naturally. You deny. It’s a lie, the whitest of lies, but a lie all the same.

“For a smart girl, Amy Raudenfeld, you can be really dense!” you reach up, tentatively brushing away Amy’s tears with your thumbs, cradling Amy’s face in your hands. “You’re my Amy, remember?” you reassure.

Her face blooms into the brightest of smiles. You can practically see the weight lift off of her shoulders. You’re both doing that weird looking at each other thing again, and you know her heart is in her throat somewhere. So is yours. You’re still holding her face and you don’t know why.

“That will never, ever change. OK?”

“OK,” she echoes, brokenly.

“I promise,” you whisper. “Nothing matters today. Not Reagan. Not Liam. Not any of our stupid crap! All that matters is you, and me, and Joshie.”

The distance you’ve felt between you these past few months, tangible and immovable, but invisible to everyone else, seems to disappear the second that reply leaves your mouth.

You just want to kiss her, right now, just to make this feel a little less terrible. But it feels like if you started, you’d never stop. There’s pain in Amy that no one sees, and no one else can reach. You’re scared of adding to it. You’re scared of changing things and ruining everything, all because one stupid idea to make you popular has snowballed into something even beyond your wildest imagination. Most of all, you’re scared of the damage you could do to each other.

“I missed you,” Amy says softly, after a moment.

“I was right here,” you reply, finding you’re almost whispering. “All you had to do was come and find me.”

You want to say more, but it’s not a conversation for today.

Amy lets out a deep sigh of relief. You don’t know why, but you close the space between you, pressing a light kiss to her forehead – because you don’t dare kiss her on the lips, not here, not now – and pull her close. You rest your head on her shoulder instead, nuzzling into her neck, suddenly overwhelmed by this desperate need for contact after so long without it.

This is where Amy belongs, you think, as you reluctantly pull away from each other, facing Josh. The sun is starting to sit lower in the sky, casting everything in a weak orange pall. Soon you’ll have to leave, when the groundskeeper comes to tell you the place is closing. You’ll walk together, hand-in-hand back to Amy’s house, and sit through that weird barbecue-turned-memorial that Farrah insists on every year that only gets fractionally less awkward with the passing of time. You’ll sit together in the yard on the swings you’re too big for and split an ice cream sundae like you always do. Happiness and guilt should never go together, but you know Amy feels that whenever she lets herself enjoy what’s going on.

When you get there you’re sure you’ll feel the same as you do right now: on the edge of something. Teetering on the brink of something spectacular and devastating. Your hands twine together easily, and she presses the barest of kisses to your temple.

“I do love you, you know that?” you breathe.

“I know,” she murmurs, in this pure, certain way, watching a bird as it flies overhead.

You let the moment pass, because really, you don’t have to confess anything. You never really have when it comes to her, but she has truths to tell. Hard ones.

“Tell him, Aims,” you encourage, nodding toward Josh. “Start right from the beginning.”

“Everything?” she asks in this tiny voice.

You know why she’s scared. People are judgemental. Choices define you. At Hester, it’s fine to be whoever you want, do whatever you want, but you both know the real world isn’t like that. Faking it made everything so much more complicated than you ever thought. It’s led you both down some strange paths, made you do strange things in an effort to find out where you fit in the world. You hope Josh would be OK with everything Amy’s done, that you’ve both done. You hope he’d love you both anyway. It’s reassuring and maddening that you’ll never know.

Like Amy said, you’re not really sure where you fit, but you think that being honest is a good start to how you find out. You should start taking your own advice. Mistakes are there to be learned from and all you’ve done is repeat them. It stops today. The lying stops. The thing with Liam stops. Keeping Amy at arm’s length stops. Protecting yourself from being hurt has only made you hurt other people instead. Enough is enough. You have to start being the person you want to be instead of the person you think you should be. Life is far too short. Whoever that person is, it’s better than who you are right now. You’re sure of it.

“Everything. Like you said,” you reply, settling back next to her. “I’ll be here for as long as it takes. I’m not going anywhere.”

This is where you belong too.


End file.
